Scratch
by Chain of Prospit
Summary: John Egbert, classical genius, young pianist prodigy, and the beloved child of music industry's most obscure critics and Top 40 stations alike. John Egbert, pauper to topper, star of the upcoming hit biography on his rise to fame. John Egbert, looking back to how it all began. John Egbert, who had never seen any of it coming. John Egbert, whose story it never was at all.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: For JChanoftheGods. A Christmas gift for a lovely writer who's even lovelier to date. Disclaimer: I know literally nothing about the music industry. All of my information on it is probably completely and horribly wrong, and is likely derived from either the first six episodes of Big Time Rush, or Wikipedia.

* * *

John shifts in his seat. Despite his long-since-established new dress code, he still hasn't quite gotten used to slacks. He is a bit better at interview now, at least. Rose helped with that.

This one, however, is a bit different. It's not like the joint interview with his cousin, which was released yesterday to promo their new Christmas album, or the time he was on Conan. (He had been told to be 'coy' about his relationship with Miss Rose Lalonde. He is pretty sure he failed spectacularly.) No, this is a tell-all that won't be sold to the tabloids or featured in the Rolling Stone. It is, instead, the first of a series of interview with a ghost writer, one who will be penning his upcoming biography, tentatively titled "The Windy Thing."

He is not sure whether he feels okay with revealing everything. He doesn't know exactly how this works. He is certain he will have to keep particular... details from the text.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?" He flashes an awkward grin, rubbing the back of his neck. His feet swing slightly over the couch edge.

"Your beginning, Mr Egbert. We know about your career launch, your education and training, your background. But we want to know about the spark. Go back. Way back. What was it that really started this all?"

"Oh gosh gross no, don't call me Mr Egbert; that's my dad!" John blurts first. He bites his lip. There is a tight-lipped smile from the party across from him, and silence. He remembers he has a question to answer. Again.

"Um! But, so yeah, beginning..."

His fingers are antsy. Noir is looking for childhood stories, he can feel it. He wants a touching experience with a grade school music teacher, or a song that got him through his mother's death. Young years growing up with a musical father. Like he said - some sort of spark.

In truth it didn't start with a spark. It didn't start in childhood either. John had already been trained, critically acclaimed, released on CD, and awarded a driver's permit by the time it actually started. There was no bang or flash or crescendo. It was a fervor, more like; a whisper in muted red velvet curtains at night. An uncomfortably echoing footstep, a tentative puppetry. It was eight-o'-clock in a sound booth with a stranger, oversized headphones and a little bit of wine.

Or, for clarity's sake, it was what led to that. Which was an October morning as he stepped through the glass double doors of StriderRecords. He was an idiot then, and probably worse now. But even though it had been a questionable move, that doorway was the closest thing he could imagine to a 'spark.'

Because that was when he entered the territory of one Dave Strider.

* * *

StriderRecords was a Very Cool Business. John had been reassured this by everyone he knew. Which was, admittedly, about four people. (But was about to be more! he reminded himself. Now that he would be signed, everyone would know him.) It was run by the Very Cool Bro called Mr D Strider, and after a flood of success in 2009, it had spawned the Beats Magazine article, "They Want the D" - about how the newest bands were all edging for a contract with SRS (StriderRecords Studios) Bzness and Mr D. A couple of new record labels had cropped up since and StriderRecords was no longer the Big New Thing, but it was still a popular and respected company.

John didn't know what record companies were supposed to look like, but he hadn't expected the sleek, tall, steel building that stood before him. He crouched back down to feed a crumpled cash tip to his taxi driver, then straightened again to squint at the company headquarter's looming height. There was no etching or sign on the door to indicate, but the address was right.

He approached and pushed open the glass door, then walked inside, tugging down the slightly-too-short sleeves of his borrowed jacket. ("Blazers over tees are cool," Pat had assured him, flattening the collar. "Have you got a wallet chain?") It was his favorite GhostBusters shirt underneath. He considered the idea that it might give him good luck, then immediately dismissed it. What a stupid thought. It wasn't like luck was a quantifiable force or aspect in the universe or anything. It was totally fake. Fakey-fake fake fake.

The secretary's name was Teresa. She asked for John's ID, medical insurance, and social security card before directing him to the elevator. "Room 413B," she said. "Top floor."

When he entered the elevator ("Down the hall, to your left - The other hall.") there was somebody already in it.

On the floor.

It was some blonde male figure he didn't recognize. He wondered if it was a band member passed out from too much partying. Turned to call out to the hall for assistance, but the door was already closed. Pressed the door open button. No response. The elevator started to move.

Downwards.

Wait, what? He pressed the button for floor 41. It lit up to indicate response, but the elevator continued downward. He stared at the man again. Was he sure it wasn't someone famous? ... Pretty sure. He didn't actually look partied out, either. No stubble or beer/bongwater stains or anything, or smeared lipstick on his collar. He was just really, really pale. His hair was, too - fair enough to be considered more white than it was blonde, even. He had sunglasses on. Damn, he was REALLY pale.

Shit, what if he was dead? Or a hobo? Or both?

John swallowed nervously and nudged the body with his foot. The dude's brows furrowed, and a pink tongue darted out to lick his lips unconsciously.

Alive, then, at least.

John wondered if he should kick him out. What if he was a hobo or insane person who wasn't supposed to be here? Would he get in trouble for doing nothing? Who was he supposed to tell, anyway? Maybe he would just keep it to himself. Wait, shit. Were there cameras in here?

... And if there were, why hadn't anyone fetched the sleeping man yet?

Maybe... this was normal?

... Musician stuff?

The elevator grated to a stop. The doors slid open. They were in some basement or something - too dark to be an underground garage. Storage? He wasn't sure. He peered out hesitantly, still. Glanced back down to the figure in the corner. Should he just... kind of... nudge him...

Oh. The chance was taken from him before he could complete the thought. The doors had already closed. With a ding and a rickety shift, the enclosure finally started moving up. He stared at the guy again, then folded his legs and sat down in the opposite corner. He took a small rubber ball out of his pocket, bounced it a couple times. Lost it on the third bounce; it rolled over to the other guy's foot, hit it, then rolled back to him. He rolled it back over so that it returned to him once more, decided this was suitable entertainment.

The elevator moved quite a bit faster going upwards, it turned out. He only got a few more rolls in before it dinged again, and he remembered to pocket the ball and jump to his feet in case anyone was on the other side.

There wasn't, fortunately. He looked back down at the sleeping blonde, wondering if he should at least wake him. Oh shit - the doors were closing. He sprinted out between them, spun on his heel, and took the last half second to pelt his rubber ball directly at the man's forehead.

He missed, actually, but the doors closed on his ball and he realized he had just essentially thrown it away. Well fuck.

* * *

"I mean... it wasn't anything really. My dad wanted me to have a hobby. I didn't want to do sports. We already had a baby grand stowed in the attic, and all the other instruments looked too hard... I just started taking lessons, nothing serious, and just kinda found out that it came really easy for me."

The sound of a pen scratching.

"It was just a side thing I did... I'd have all my regular stuff like a normal kid, and then I'd also have my music. Which would be, whatever, you know, like, practicing new projects or memorizing things for recitals or whatever. I played for my school talent show once for extra credit, and they had me join the music class the next semester. I stuck around. We all filled out music school applications our final years as a part of class. I got in."

A pause.

"Did you consider any other careers?"

"Yeah." He laughs. "I wanted to be a GhostBuster."

A chuckle.

"Turns out there's no academy for that. I could have just gone and been a businessman like my dad... but I didn't really understand any of that. I like creatures and stuff, and magic tricks, japery in general... I mean, I had hobbies and interests. But there wasn't really anything I pictured myself doing when I grew up." ... Well. "Except, yeah, GhostBusting. And meeting Nic Cage."

"Did you ever?"

"I still haven't met him!"

A small twitch of a smile. This is going well. He is sounding pretty charismatic, he thinks - the scripted interviews he has done on shows must have paid off, because these are decent lines. He wonders if any of them will actually be included in the book. Probably not. Frowns internally.

"Well, anyway... It never really hit me that I could actually do the career thing out of this until, uh, I went into StriderRecords to get signed."

"What was that like for you?"

He had thrown a rubber ball at a sleeping man in an elevator. "I met some... unexpected characters."

"Mr Strider is painted as a very intimidating figure. Very private. How was he to you?"

"Mysterious, yeah." It's another Strider about which he answers, though. "And... magnetic."

Faster writing. He wonders if he should alter that note. Magnetic isn't quite the right word. More like he had been hooked, pulled in on a fishing line, inexplicably drawn.

He decides to leave it as is.

It's nothing the public needs to know.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: Bonus for the very last day of the advent calendar fic gifting! Surprise~

* * *

"Blazers over tees are not cool," said Mr Strider, clad in a white polo with the collar turned up (tucked in to belted black jeans) and a gray baseball cap.

John blinked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The jacket. Lose it." He straightened a stack of papers, then made a sitting gesture. "Sit down."

With furrowed brows and a pervasive feeling of skepticism, John shrugged off the blazer and draped it over the back of the indicated chair, sitting down with his hands folded in his lap awkwardly. "What's cool, then?" he asked.

"Leather jackets over tees. But not for long. Always think ahead." He was flipping through pages, uncapping a pen with his teeth and skimming over the content.

"Okay..." John waited for the next bit, but it didn't come. He wiggled his jaw. "... What's ahead?"

"Sweaters."

"... Sweaters."

"Yep. Get yourself some."

"Mr Strider - "

"D."

"What?"

"Mr D."

"Okay, Mr D... This is Texas."

"Yeah." His single word responses came out as grunts.

"You're asking me to wear sweaters," John clarified.

"Nope." Mr D capped the pen again. "Not asking."

John wasn't sure he was going to like this producer. His stomach was already curling. "What if I get heat stroke?"

"You won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"Douches in leather jackets don't; you won't."

John perched forward on his seat. "Okay but - "

"Air conditioning, smartass." For the first time, Mr D's face was pointed directly at him, deadpan. John noticed that he was wearing oversized pointy sunglasses. He had thought those were only a red carpet deal.

Wait. "... What?"

"You'll be inside you little twerp. You're a pianist, not an acoustic guitarist. Pianists are cool color players. Everything you do is at night or inside. Mostly both."

"Oh." He pursed his lips and stared at his lap, then glanced back up with widened eyes. "So I definitely am signed then?"

Mr D raised a brow. "Do you even listen to your agent?" He pushed over a stapled stack of papers over to John, then tapped a line at the bottom of the first page, handing him a pen with his other hand. "You sign, and then you're signed."

That ended that discussion for the next several minutes. There was a period of getting papercuts and finding all the obscure Xs and highlights that indicated a required signature. A handshake, an awkward belated standing. And then he remembered to ask one thing:

"When are polos cool?"

Mr D stared at him. And stared some more. Finally he grunted and shuffled a stack of papers together again, turning away to plop them in some basket. "I play golf."

* * *

Then the session gets difficult.

John tells him about the polo, about the golf remark, exaggerate the pile of pages - he nods and writes, nods and writes. He prods a little more about anything John learned in the future about Mr Strider that might make that first conversation more relevant or funny.

He can't think of anything. Not funny things anyway.

He moves forward; they talk about what happened after. Dad taking John out to dinner, congratulations from his music school friends (with a small note from Jay asking when he could bring his jacket back; he had a date on Friday). Did Jay ever get his jacket back? No, he never did.

So what did Strider tell you that you'll never forget?

"Um... I thought the golf line was pretty good."

Anything striking about that day, some sort of symbol, an indicator of things to come?

"..."

Was the weather portentous?

"It was... sunny?"

Did you meet anyone on your way to the studio?

"N-no... I was in a cab..."

It is growing more and more obvious that the writer is not pleased.

"You have to give me something, John. You told me this was your spark, your seed, the day it all started. Now we have to show that to the readers. What did that day mean to you? What did you think about going home?" (He can hear the irritation and tries to stomach an awkward half-and-half of guilt and discomfort.)

"..." John closes his eyes in an avoidant squint, trying to remember. "I carried my papers down to the front of the building again and left. Decided to get a sandwich before going home. There was a place just a few doors down... I sat in..."

What had he been thinking about? Nervousness, anticipation - ordinary, boring. He remembers reaching into his pocket for his rubber ball, which he liked to bounce for stress relief. It hadn't been there.

He frowns, trying to find something significant to spin about that. Can't. His attachment to the thing is straightforward enough. Remembers rummaging around and withdrawing a two-headed coin instead. Flipping it a few times, spinning it, tracing it on the back of one of the pages. Doodling an icon there, something he wasn't sure where he'd seen before. Halfway through, he had realized it was a record. Puzzled over it for a minute, then added one last touch:

a scratch.

"... I can't think of anything. I'm sorry."

* * *

"Could you repeat the question?"

John rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a nervous habit. "I just asked if anyone had turned in... I wanted to know if you had seen my, uh, ball?"

Teresa's stare was as icy as the frosted silver choker that graced her neck today. "I'm sorry, did you just ask if this company owns your balls?"

An instant widening of eyes. "Uh, no! My rubber - bouncy - it's just for magic tricks and bouncing and stuff, little, round, red and blue!"

"I have seen nothing of the sort," said the secretary in some kind of snakely slither. "Were you invited here today?"

Omg, rude. "I'm supposed to be... touring the facilities." He frowned.

She blinked slowly, clearly disinterested. "There are seats over there for you to wait in."

He waited around a bit, got squirmy, reached for his ball about seven times, and finally jumped up to approach Teresa again. She raised a metallic onyx brow at his approach.

"What now?"

"Is there a bathroom?"

With grudging direction, John was pointed down the hall he had been scurried out of last time. Hands in pockets, he shuffled along the tiles and glanced around. None of the doors seemed to be labeled. What was this place, a pseudo-labyrinth meant only to be navigable by the chosen ones or something? He tried the door at the end, finding it locked. Shifted his gaze nervously, travelled around the corner, tried that one.

Aha - jackpot!

He pushed open the door all the way and reached for his jeans immediately, desperate to relieve the pressure on his bladder, shuffling towards the nearest porcelain structure with one hand fiddling with his crotch. Stationed himself firmly, thank god he had found it, and

- "AAH!"

Fuck! What! He scrambled back with fly still open, mouth agape. Something had just dropped right in front of his face, bouncing to a stop inches before his eyes. Oh my god it was a creature, oh my god was that a centipede cENTIPEDES DIDN'T EVEN DROP FROM WEBS DID THEY WHAT WHAT WAS THIS WHAT BUG ANATOMY LESSON HAD HE MISSED WAS THIS A MUTANT CENTIPEDE DEAR LORD THAT WAS THE LAST THING HE NEEDE... d...

Was that... paper?

Hesitantly regrouping and fixing his crooked glasses, John allowed himself a closer look at the still-dangling object. To his amazement, he found himself staring at a 2d (if rather realistic) ink picture of a centipede on a cut-out piece of ordinary printer paper. It was taped to something round, which had apparently been dropped from the vent above via a long string. He prodded it carefully, and it spun freely around -

it was his blue and red swirled, 25-cent, vending machine, 'magic' bouncy ball.

Oh... he noticed he had peed a little. Damnit.

* * *

Notes: Merry Christmas! Original post on my Tumblr, c-h-a-i-n-letters.


End file.
